


Bird's Eye

by waterfallliam



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Masturbation, Other Characters Are Mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8791492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterfallliam/pseuds/waterfallliam
Summary: “Goodnight Harold.” John didn’t look back. It felt as though his mark was searing into his skin. It had been a long day.That night, as he brushed his teeth, shirtless, John imagined his bird was looking at him knowingly.(or: John's mark is a bird and somewhere along the way he falls for Harold)





	

John’s tattoo had appeared when he was ten, earlier than most soulmate identifiers, but not significantly so. It was of a bird - simple, elegant and with a beady eye that always watched him when he stared at himself in the mirror.

When he had been younger it had been comforting. Later, as John began to puzzle over the meaning of it, it became somewhat disturbing.

Most people had names, many had more than one, clocks were cropping up more frequently, but having a different kind of symbol, a more abstract one, a picture, was rare. John used to reassure himself it would make sense when he met that special someone.

John used to think it made _him_ special.

Then he met Jessica. When he couldn’t connect the bird to her directly, he decided to ignore it. Jessica had a clock. He had never seen it not read zero. Zero zero zero.

Zero was the amount of good he was for her when he went back. (When he had to go back.)

The bird would watch him in the mirror sometimes.

On one memorable mission some bastard had tried to hurt him by cutting through it. John would have laughed at the time, were it not for the next thing the man did with his knife. Not that it mattered much now - John had plenty of scars.

But the bird recovered. The scar healed nice and thin, a local doctor had fussed enormously over it - it being his soulmark and all - but in the end it had been of little consequence. The ink just grew back right along with his skin. John buried the irrefutable evidence that meant his soulmate was still alive and kicking deep into the recesses of his mind.

John hoped whoever it was had more than one name, or clock, or - anyhow, the mortality rate in his line of work wasn’t exactly low.

And then he was shot. Almost killed by someone he would not kill.

Being dead was easier than John had thought it should be. The betrayal, seeing the agency for what it was… he half expected his tattoo to fade once he gave up on them. Kara had joked more than once that his bird was the CIA eagle. John had always hated that.

If he was honest with himself, he’d known what the agency was, is. He just also believed in his county, in keeping people safe.

He knew who he was. (A killer.)

In the end he was right and she was wrong. In the end they were both dead but he lived. In the end, he still caught the bird watching him out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t comforting, it wasn’t creepy. It was a part of his life he had given up on arriving at.

Before Finch, but after death, he hadn’t looked at many mirrors. Had actively avoided every opportunity to.

Once, he had slipped. He had known it was his own mind that made the bird look accusing. He had known it was resentment he felt towards himself, towards the government, towards anything that took his fancy, that had encouraged that thought, when really, he had been too tired for that kind of rage. Too tired for much of anything. He had thought it was over. That it was time. That this was going to be his last stop: New York.

But then Finch had swooped in and plucked him right out of the precinct.

A purpose, Finch had said. _That_ was what John needed.

John knew there wasn’t redemption for man like him, not with the things he’d done. But he had a very specific skillset and he could save lives. It helped that it was Finch. If someone like Kara or Mark had approached him…

Now his survival rate still wasn’t high, but it was a damn lot higher than the place where he’d been before Finch.

John had once pondered if his bird symbolised peace, like a dove. But it didn’t look more like one species of bird than any other. It was almost like a chameleon. Anyway, he wasn't a man of peace, or one who could find any.

One day, staying late at the library with Finch, John had an idea. What if it stood for a bird that soars, that flies... that lives.

John was grateful. Grateful for his friends. Grateful he had a tomorrow. Maybe the bird just meant life. Alive. The people he saved with Finch, Carter, Fusco, the Machine. Life.

(Maybe it stood for his purpose.)

For someone who had given up on finding his soulmate, John did think about his mark an awful lot.

John didn’t need it to make sense.

His first instinct was to tell Finch - he was sitting just a few feet away. But John stopped himself before he’d even opened his mouth. Soulmate identifiers were a sensitive topic. Did Finch have one? (Had he had one?) And… John would have to tell him about the bird.

Had Finch considered that relevant research? The first day they met, Finch had said he knew _everything_ about John.

John looked at him now, reaching for his tea as he continued typing with his other. A man in sync with his environment, with himself. John had often admired his intellect, how put together he was. His suits were stylish, though eccentric. His eyes bright despite the burdens he undoubtedly carried. He was very beautiful.

John sipped his coffee, the realisation of his attraction echoing in his head. It felt like a lifetime since his body had sung _that_ melody of chemicals.

It was with that revelation that John started to push the boundaries of their banter into flirting, a daring comment here or there, a look or two that lingered.

Finch, it seemed, preferred not to notice. John wasn’t disappointed - he hadn’t let himself have any expectations. No use in doing that.

In the mornings, when John shaved, his bird watched him. Always watching. Never blinking. A constant.

The pattern of Finch’s indifference continued, another constant, until one morning it didn’t. It deviated rather spectacularly.

“I don’t know what kind of personal information you hope to reveal with all this probing, Mr Reese.” Finch’s words were clipped and composed.

“While I do want to know more about you Finch, I was being sincere.”

“I see,” Finch said a little distantly.

“Harold, if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll stop.”

“No, that’s quite alright. I’m sorry I overreacted Mr Reese. I am having difficulty with ...something else right now.”

“I was being sincere,” John repeated, his voice a whisper, his chest feeling hollow.

When he Finch didn’t answer, John left - there was a life out there that needed saving after all.

John was there in a nick of time. John was in the right place for a bullet to nick him as well. If John had a nickel for every time he’d been shot…

“Please try not to bleed over the armchair, Mr Reese, it’s an antique.” Finch determinedly kept typing, his eyes glued to the screen as John used his shirt to stem the bleeding.

The bullet had gone through his right shoulder. The shooter had been an amateur, aiming who knows where. He’d already removed the bullet in the bathroom. A few stitches and a gauze pad for his flesh wound and he felt contained within his skin again.

John hadn’t realised he was exposing his mark until he caught Finch staring at his left shoulder. Staring at his bird.

John didn’t move.

Finch realised he was staring and flicked his gaze upwards. John met his eyes cooly as he tugged on a spare shirt, dumping the ruined one in a bin bag.

“I-” Finch cut himself off. John buttoned his shirt up slowly.

“Make sure you rest, Mr Reese.”

“Goodnight Harold.” John didn’t look back. It felt as though his mark was searing into his skin. It had been a long day.

That night, as he brushed his teeth, shirtless, John imagined his bird was looking at him knowingly. What it knew though, John seemed not to.

The next day Finch greeted him in his usual manner. John planted his tea on his desk like he usually did.

“Do we have a number yet?” His voice was silky as ever, but his stomach felt as if it was lined with lead.

“I’ll tell you when we have one.”

John went off to find a book.

He snuck glances at Finch throughout the day, but it was only when Finch thanked him for getting take out that he realised. He was feeling rejected. Finch hadn’t responded to Reese’s flirting, and now that he knew it was genuine, still nothing.

John had thought he had no expectations.

That was the thing about emotions: they snuck up on you. Even with his training, John was vulnerable. He absentmindedly rubbed his shoulder. He’d thought he was done with this. But then again, John had thought he was dead more than once.

The next day there was another number waiting for him.

There would always be another number waiting for him.

(He would always have a purpose.)

This time John didn’t get shot, tied up, or remarkably injured in any way. The blood on his knuckles and face didn’t count - that was merely a side effect from the injury he’d caused. John noticed Finch frowning at him all the same when he came back to the library, exhausted.

“Sometimes I think you don’t care about whether you get hurt, Mr Reese.”

“I care about stopping others getting hurt.”

John getting hurt was just a side effect.

Finch was quiet for a moment.

“Please, do try not to get hurt more than needed,” Finch sighed.

John hurting because Harold cared for him, just not quite in the way John did for him, was also a side effect. A side effect of living. John bit back a sigh.

“I can’t make any promises. You’re the one who said we’d both wind up dead sooner or later.”

John first probably. Another reason it was probably for the best that Finch kept him at arm’s length.

“Later, rather than sooner,” Finch asserted.

John looked up to catch Harold looking at him, his terminals momentarily less important. His expression seemed resolute.

“What about the numbers, when that happens?”

“I have a contingency plan in place,” Finch said stiffly. Of course he did. Finch had a plan for everything. It was comforting, knowing that he did. Reese smiled.

To his surprise, Finch smiled back.

John made quick work of cleaning himself up in the bathroom.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Finch,” John half whispered, suddenly close to Finch. If he wanted, he was close enough to lick the shell of Finch’s ear. He didn’t do it. Finch probably wouldn’t quiver in his seat, or let out a little gasp like John was imagining he would.

“Until tomorrow, Mr Reese,” Finch replied. John saw the the tips of his ears turn pink.

That was another deviation in Finch’s pattern of indifference.

The thought gave John hope. Unlike the hope of redemption, or atonement, that could barely be heard in the hallways of his heart, this hope started to burn at the bottom of his ribcage. Unless John watched it, it would kindle his heart again.

Maybe that was what his bird had already known. Maybe he had been trying to warn him about the danger of wanting too much. About the dry wood buried at the bottom of his chest. It already was too late.

John decided to crank up the heat a little.

The next time there was no number waiting for him, he read a book as per usual. Unusually, he sprawled over the armchair, legs spread casually, trying to show off his body.

“That position can’t be comfortable Mr Reese.” It had only taken twelve minutes.

John smirked. He lowered his book.

“I’m perfectly comfortable, Harold.”

John thought he heard Harold snort.

Harold began to touch him more. A quick grip of the elbow to get his attention as he walked past Finch’s terminal, a brush of Finch’s knuckles against his jacket; once Finch had even straightened his collar after a particularly vicious fistfight.

John’s bird kept watching him. John began to look back. What was he trying to tell himself? He looked harder.

The next time John came back with blood on his hands and face Finch did more than frown. He fussed. He brought John a damp flannel with a sigh. It was even warm. He told John to be more careful.

“It’s in my job description, Harold,” John gently reminded him.

Finch didn’t look too pleased about that reminder, but he still reached out to take the flannel again and dab at John’s face.

“You missed some.”

John hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this. Touch. Lingering and personal, so different from harsh knuckles or stiff fingers poking at wounds.

This had kind intentions. This was gentle. Harold’s hands was warm. His cheek seared for hours afterwards.

That next morning, John showered for a long time. He had dreamt he saw a giant bird that cradled him in its warm wings. He’d fallen, but into heat, into pleasure. Into Harold’s arms.

It had been a while since it had felt this good, the warm water running down his back, his hand that knew his body well. Denial was easier, but John was tired of it. He _wanted_.

“Finch,” he moaned, the spray of the shower thundering in his ears.

“Harold.” That was more quiet. He hosed himself down one final time and turned the shower off.

“Finch,” he muttered to himself. He was considering him.

“Finch.” John stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel. How would he react to seduction? Would it have ramifications for their work? Was that why he was so hesitant?

“Finch.” John looked at himself in the mirror. He stared at his mark. It had become a bad habit.

“Finch.” A bird.

“Burdett.” A name meaning bird.

“Partridge. Wren. Crane…” more birds.

John looked at his mark. His _bird._

Realisation his him like a brick to the face. How had he not seen it, not even considered it?

John rushed to the library. He was early. Not that he arrived at a set time. He was there earlier than usual. Harold was sitting at his terminal, looking ravishing in his suit as ever.

“Harold,” John started.

“No number yet Mr Reese.”

“Harold, that night you saw my...” it suddenly occurred to John that maybe Harold hadn’t known what he had seen - marks like his were rare after all, “tattoo.”

Harold pointed to his own shoulder - to the place where John’s bird was on his. “I remember.”

“It’s more than just a tattoo.”

“Oh.”

In that moment, John thought Harold looked vulnerable.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought-”

“It’s rare.”

Harold was briefly rendered speechless. “Mr Reese, why-”

“Please call me John.”

“John,” Harold looked at him pointedly, “why are you telling me this?”

“Harold. I- do you,” John took a breath. He looked him in the eyes, “it’s _you_.”

Harold blinked at him. “Mr Re- John, how can-”

“It’s you Harold. I thought I’d stopped feeling, stopped caring, but now I have a purpose, a job.” John licked his lips. “I save lives Harold, I get to save them. With you.”

John didn’t believe it could balance out things he’d done. But he believed in Harold, trusted him. So if Harold saw something in him, something good, something loveable, which John desperately hoped, then so be it.

“You Harold. I’ve never met anyone so…” John struggled, trying to avoid a cliché, not wanting to sound insincere.

“Neither have I,” Harold said quietly, understanding.

John waited for Harold to make a move.

“If you don’t want the same things as I do, I can forget this happened, you don’t need to worry about our working relationship-”

“I-I do want those things, John,” he paused, and looked up- “I want you, John.”

Harold stood up abruptly, reached for John’s lapels and dragged him close. John surged forward, kissing him softly yet hungrily. Their lips slid against each other and John cradled Harold’s hips with his hands.

He pulled back after what felt like minutes, but probably was only ten seconds, max.

“Harold, are you-”

Harold leaned in again, bringing one of his hands up to cup John’s cheek. It was only with great difficulty that John was able to pull back. He desperately wanted to keep kissing Harold.

“There’s no going back, are you sure you want-”

Harold just tugged him forward again, kissing an affirmative.

John smiled into the kiss, his heart finally a roaring fire in his chest.

It was later, much later, after a hasty couple days with their next number, that they found time for themselves. It had been 54 hours since their first kiss, or rather kisses. John had been too busy to think about them, to let doubts creep in. It would’ve been of little consequence, anyhow. John had fallen hard.

And Harold was …well Harold. After finishing up at the library, he caught John by the elbow and slid his hand down his forearm, finally locking their fingers together when he reached John’s palm.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Harold said.

“Oh yeah?” John leaned close, his voice dropping an octave lower than usual. This time John saw a faint blush spread all over Finch’s face.

“Come home with me,” Finch said, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

John _melted_. “Of course.”

The ride there took longer than John would have liked, but the traffic gave him something other than Harold to focus on. The GPS directed him, and although Harold was quiet, although he didn’t reach out to John throughout the journey, John could feel the tension between them rising.

Harold’s apartment was smaller than John had expected. The word cozy came to mind and John understood.

They went slow, they took their time. Harold’s breathy gasps and moans were like music to John’s ears as he kissed him, as he kissed his way down his body.

Harold didn’t tear his eyes away as John prepared himself, his fingers working himself open as fast as he could.

It was gentle but fast, both of them lost in the other.

“This feel good?”

“Oh- yes,” a gasp, “phenomenal.”

Later, as they lay together in a luxurious hotel bed, Harold traced the outline of John’s bird with a finger.

“I didn’t know people had pictures.”

“It’s rare,” John repeated.

John had found a few names scattered over Finch’s body. Nathan Ingram under his lowest left rib. Grace Hendricks under the right. Both were faded, scarred to white.

John saw a name he recognised between them. It was grey. Not faded, just… John didn’t know what. His old name. John was written (again) on Harold’s lower back, ink black, darker than the night sky he could see through Harold’s window. One of John’s hands rested there now, holding him.

“I used to think the bird stood for life,” John said, surprising himself a little with his admission. “A fluttering, quivering thing that somehow survives a great fall and learns to fly.”

“So, you can be poetic,” Harold smiled. John grinned.

“It could have more than one meaning. You do protect life,” Harold said after some consideration. John leaned closer, resting their foreheads together. One of Harold’s hands curled around his waist, as if to protect him.

“John, I-” Harold murmured sleepily, his eyes shut. John pulled the cover over them a bit more.

“It’s okay Harold. We’ve got time.”

John had time. He had a tomorrow. And if he did, so would Harold.

The next morning, when he looked in the mirror, when he looked at his bird, he looked it deep in the eye and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo i had the idea that John has a bird tattoo as a soulmate mark and it escalated from there. five days later i had 3.3k of (imo whimsical) fic set somewhere in early au s1. what's a writer to do ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ i thought: why not share :) thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it!


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